My father always told me that we can never choose our destiny, that our destiny chooses us. It's not always what we want, but we have to accept it. I think the only reason I listened to him was because, when he said this, he knew he was dying. AH OOC

A/N: This is my first shot at
fanfic, and I hope I didn't mess with your beloved characters too
much. I hope you enjoy :) and please, for the sake of all that is
holy, REVIEW! SMeyer owns.

Alice POV

I stared out the
window, pouting a little, my legs swinging back and forth off the
edge of my bed. It was raining again. It always rained, and I was
tired of it. But this time, the power was out, and I couldn't turn
my TV on or heat up my curling iron. All of my magazines were read
and gutted of all good fashion ads that now hung on my walls and my
cell phone was dead. It had been raining ceaselessly since Thursday
when my father picked Edward and I up from First Beach after his
check-up at the doctor's office. I'd found it kind of ironic,
considering my dad was a doctor himself. Regardless, it had been
raining for four days. We were lucky that Carlisle decided to build
our house on high terrain. Some homes at sea level were worried about
flooding. At least there was a bit of brightness left; the coolness
of the gray sky filtered in through my curtains and casted a muted
glow on the dark wooden floors. On the bright side—no pun
intended—it could have been dark, and I hated the dark.

"Alice!"

My eyes snapped
up from my pale knees as someone pounded relentlessly on my bedroom
door. I sneered. Edward. He was so irritating.

"What do you
want?" I called across my football field of a bedroom. My clock at
my bedside table read 6:30. Dinnertime. My mother and father smiled
at me from the family picture that sat in the delicate silver frame
by my alarm.

"Esme said to
come downstairs to help set the table," he hollered, opening the
door without permission. I slipped my flat off my foot and promptly
threw it at his big, bronze-colored head.

"I didn't
tell you that you could come in, Edward," I snarled, removing my
other shoe from lack of proper ammunition.

"Well I didn't
ask," he snickered, dodging the Italian leather that was soaring
towards his face. "Besides, if you didn't want me in here, you
should have locked the door." The grin he wore was so smug that I
nearly lunged at him myself.

Edward is the
younger of my two brothers, and while I liked him more than Emmett,
he was definitely the lesser of two evils. Edward and I are twins,
and he seemed to think that because we share a birthday, it was okay
to be a complete dick without any remorse. On our thirteenth birthday
four years ago, I invited my first boyfriend, Bryce, over for the
'family birthday party' that my mother insisted on hosting. I
remember Bryce that day so clearly as if it was happening all over
again in my head. He ran from the house, screaming to his mother on
his cell phone, with pink icing hardening around his carefully gelled
spikes. Edward had howled with laughter as he and Emmett rubbed the
butter cream into Bryce's hair as if they were washing a dog, Bryce
screaming and crying all the while as Esme tried to pull the boys
away from him. My eyes had brightened at the sight of my giant pink
birthday cake, Esme balancing it precariously on her palms, my elated
squeals transforming to screams of terror as Edward jumped from
behind a curtain, screaming, "boo!" and laughing hysterically as
our mother dropped my pink birthday cake to the floor in complete
fear. He and Emmett apparently thought it was a good idea to scoop
the ruined cake from the floor and wash my boyfriend's hair with
it. I had told myself that something bad would happen as far as my
brothers' involvement was concerned, almost like a premonition. But
I'd passed it off as paranoia, figuring that Edward and Emmett
would at least behave themselves on our birthday. I had been wrong.
Bryce never came back again.

The story of my
unfortunate thirteenth birthday party sort of demonstrates my entire
childhood with Edward as my brother. Other than the same birthday, we
shared a car, a school, a family, a bathroom…we obviously shared
way too much. And the anger of seventeen tortured years of sharing a
roof with Edward Cullen seemed to accumulate in that moment, as he
stood defiantly in my doorway.

"Get the fuck
out of my way, Edward," I hissed, shoving past him with as much
force as my four foot, eleven inch frame would allow. That was
another thing that irritated me; Edward managed to make it over six
feet while I wallowed in the fact that I was almost legally a midget.

"Alright,
Alice. Have fun letting Esme boss you around. I'll just be messing
around with your shit while your gone." His lips curled up at the
ends as he crossed his ankles in a casual stance, fingering the edges
of a Vogue that sat on my desk.

"Try it and
see what happens," I threatened, taking a step towards him.

"Ooh, and I'm
supposed to be scared of you?" he cackled, throwing his head back
in exaggerated laughter.

"Alice,
Edward, knock it off." A smooth voice interrupted our quarrel, both
of our heads turning simultaneously to face our father. Carlisle
stood outside of his study door, arms crossed over his chest and his
mouth turned downward in distaste.

"He started
it," I mumbled childishly, my eyes on the floor. I twirled a tiny
piece of black hair around my finger as Edward tried to form a poorly
articulated excuse.

"I honestly
don't care who 'started it,' Alice," Carlisle said firmly,
cutting Edward off in the midst of his defense. "Go do what your
mother asked." He pointed a long, pale finger towards the winding
staircase. I followed his instruction without argument, Carlisle's
voice wafting down with me as I left. "And as for you Edward, stop
with the fucking cussing."

Esme was the
anchor of the Cullen household. It was odd that she allowed us to
call her Esme, but she had insisted that she liked it better than
'mom' because it kept her feeling young. Emmett always called her
mom, and Edward did most of the time, but I think she liked for me to
call her Esme because it made her feel like we were friends.

"I thank God
for you, Alice," she said when I entered the kitchen. "I thought
no one would come and help." A grin stretched across her face and
she flipped her mahogany waves behind her shoulder.

"I don't
mind," I lied. I arranged five glass plates perfectly around or
circular table, humming some song I forgot the name of as Esme tossed
a salad. Silence lingered in the kitchen, occasionally being broken
by the clinking of glass or the pitter-pat of my footsteps against
the tile. Esme wasn't particularly talented when it came to
interacting with her own children. Both she and Carlisle worked like
dogs day-in and day-out, leaving my brothers and I alone most of the
time.

"So Alice, are
you up for a little shopping in Port Angeles Wednesday before school
starts?" Esme always broke the ice with a shopping proposal.
Against my will, my face lit up as I slid onto a barstool.

"What do you
think?" I asked rhetorically, biting into a carrot. Esme playfully
swatted my hand away from her salad ingredients.

"Great. Your
father is taking the day off Wednesday, too. I think he's going to
ask Em and Edward to go on the boat or something."

"The boat? In
Forks? That's probably a stupid idea. It's been raining like
crazy," I argued, gesturing towards the lighting fixtures that were
still not working under the circumstances of famous Forks inclement
weather. Esme hummed thoughtfully.

"Well, they'll
think of something to do." She hastily chopped a stalk of celery,
just missing the tip of her index finger. Her eyes widened
infinitesimally at the close proximity of the butcher knife to her
finger before they softened and her lips hardened into a straight
line. I bit my lip.

"So you said
Dad's taking the day off?" I asked. "He never does stuff like
that. What's the occasion?" Esme continued to cut the celery into
fine grains as if I hadn't asked a question.

"He feels
guilty," she said suddenly. "He's never home enough, and he
thinks that the boys are starting to resent him." I couldn't
argue. Mine and Edward's little interaction with Carlisle upstairs
just before was a fine portrayal of our relationship with him.

Carlisle loved
us undoubtedly, but he always served as the more disciplinary parent
while Esme was the more loving and indulging one. I suppose that it
was necessary, what with Emmett's constant trouble making and
Edward's dire need to pester me twenty-four hours a day. But
Carlisle was seen as the villain. Esme could catch me doing something
as bad as hooking up with my first cousin in her bathtub next to
forty-two lines of un-snorted coke, and she would just smile and say,
"Just wait until your father comes home!" She'd probably even
help clean up afterwards, as long as she didn't have to punish me.
I never really acted out much though, because I was actually trying
to create a future for myself. I was bound for art school and took up
all of my free time in drawing classes and shopping around with my
best friend, Rose. I left the felonies and DUIs to my brothers.

"Funny that
it's taken him seventeen years-well, eighteen as far as Emmett's
concerned-to 'feel guilty' for neglecting his kids," I blurted,
blushing at Esme's stunned reaction.

"Alice!" she
chastised. "You know that he tries. Look at what he bought you for
your birthday this year! And he offered Emmett that internship at the
hospital…" She trailed off, realizing that all of Carlisle's
efforts were entirely material. But her eyes were sad. Devastated,
even. I couldn't understand why; she'd never protested against my
complaints about Carlisle's parenting before. But her face fell
slack, like she was dead. Her grip suddenly tightened around the
cutting knife, her already pale knuckles bleaching white and her face
coming back to life.

"Yeah, Esme.
He bought me a Gucci bag. That hardly quantifies as love."

"Listen to me.
He's trying. Let him try."

"He's trying
with them, but why not me? Don't I get a free day with Daddy
Dearest?" At that, she slammed the knife down on the cutting board.
Her eyes were wide, her free hand gripping the edge of the granite
countertop. She hesitated slightly, he face turning a purplish red,
before exploding with anger.

"Your dad has
cancer, Alice. He's going to die. There. Is that good enough for
you?" I opened my mouth to say something, but my throat was
suddenly parched and no sound would come out.

"So I hope
you're happy with that explanation, Alice. I hope you're pleased
with your little performance. Carlisle has given you kids everything,
and you know he loves you best. You're his only daughter. Give him
the benefit of the doubt, and stop being a little bitch."

My eyes welled
with tears, my mouth still hanging open to say something that my
throat wouldn't let me. Your dad has cancer, Alice. He's going
to die. I thought back to Thursday, when the storm began.
Carlisle had picked Edward and I up from La Push; Emmett had taken
our Volvo for the day since his Jeep was in the shop. I hadn't
noticed it at the time, but when I thought back, his face had been
emotionless and his lips drained of color. He had known. He had
already found out. And Edward and I just yelled at him about how he
had been late and we'd had to stand out in the rain. Our father
had just found out that he was dying and all we had done was
complain about getting wet.

Esme choked out
a sob, leaving the vegetables half-chopped on the counter as she
turned on her heel and ran for her bedroom.

Nobody ate
dinner that night.

The sky
eventually brightened from a pitch black to a muted gray, an
indication that the day was new. My eyes had remained open all night.
My eyelashes were wet, my carefully applied mascara dried in dark
tracks down my cheeks, the corners of my lips sticky with dried
saliva. I heard a soft rapping at the door around noon, which I
ignored.

"Alice? Mom
says you're not coming to hang out at Jasper's with Emmett and me
today. Change your mind?" I heard Edward's low voice call. I
disregarded this also. I heard the doorknob jiggle, and I emitted the
first sound I'd made in twelve hours. It was a humorless chuckle.
It was ironic-the first time I had remembered to lock my door was the
one time Edward wasn't intentionally trying to aggravate me.
Eventually, the rattling stopped, and the house fell silent. I
assumed that Esme had gone off to work at her interior design company
and Carlisle had driven to the hospital for his shift. I found it
confusing that Carlisle's body was fighting itself and he was
continuing to try and save other people's lives. It seemed that
everything was full of irony. Staring at the red numbers of my alarm,
I watched the hours pass without moving from my fetal position on my
bed, my father's face watching me with a smile from the picture
frame beside my clock.

I couldn't
tell Edward. I wouldn't tell him. It wasn't my secret to tell. I
figured Carlisle's random decision to skip work Wednesday was so
that he could tell my brothers himself, and as much as I wanted to
scream or yell or kick Edward in the face, I couldn't. I couldn't
do anything. My father had cancer. It was so messed up. I was so
happy, a hyper little seventeen-year-old girl with tons of money and
friends and potential. I was going to art school. I even thought that
maybe Jasper Hale from school had a crush on me. Everything was
fucking perfect. But then…this. Carlisle was a surgeon, for crying
out loud. It was kind of like a fireman's house burning down, or a
policeman's home being intruded. For some reason, it seemed against
the norm. Since Carlisle was a doctor, he could never be sick. As
irrational as it was, it sounded completely sound and reasonable in
my head. I had formed a sort of hatred for my paternal figure, for
reasons unknown. Maybe it was because he was never really around, or
maybe it's because he was always there and I took him for granted.
Or maybe it was because Emmett and Edward hated him so much, and the
hatred sort of rubbed off on me. Carlisle seemed a permanent fixture
to me, a never-ending money supply. A prop that always handed me his
car keys when I wanted to go to a party with Rose or a black Am-Ex
when I wanted a new pair of shoes. I never thought of him not being
there.

In these hours
that I lay on my antique sleigh bed, soaking my silk pillows with
silent tears, I never once considered that Carlisle could get better.
I expected the worst. Now that I knew he was sick, I couldn't
picture him getting better. And I wasn't even sure what type of
cancer he had. Truthfully, I didn't know much about the disease. I
just knew that it was common, and a lot of people in the world had
it. Rose's grandmother had died from it in the ninth grade, and
Jasper's uncle had melanoma. I'm sure Carlisle has been livid
with Esme after she told him that the news slipped out. My dad did
adore me, after all. He had probably wanted to tell me himself. I was
the 'good child,' always getting straight A's and going out
with the right boys. And I repaid him with disrespect and
indifference. His eyes were wide and expecting when he handed me that
wrapped package on my seventeenth birthday, his cheeks pink with
expectation. And the purse that was inside was exactly the one
I'd wanted. It was perfect and beautiful and I'd sneak off to my
closet in the middle of the night to just look at it. In the split
second I first laid eyes on it, I already planned to buy a matching
wallet and thought up fifteen different outfits I could wear it with.
But I swallowed it all back.

"Thanks, dad.
It's nice," I'd said, without sparing even a smile. And his
face fell miserably, crumpling into a devastating frown that made his
young face look old. Defeated. And I had been happy, hoping that
finally, he could see that I wanted affection and not a four
thousand dollar Gucci bag. Even though it was perfect. A piece
of art, really.

I would take it
all back, in a heartbeat. I would throw my arms around his neck,
squealing about how completely faultless the leather was, how
beautiful the gold chain-link handle looked, how it was exactly what
I had always dreamed about. But it was too late. My newfound love for
my father would now be only recognized as pity.

After the red
numbers on the clock morphed into indecipherable shapes through my
tears, the sky grew dark again. I knew that the power was probably
back on, but I couldn't break the walls of my grief to reach for
the light switch.

"Leave her
alone, Emmett." Esme's soft voice broke me from my sleep. My eyes
lazily opened, my body stiff and my short hair ruffled from two days
of being unwashed. It wasn't like me not to be perfectly groomed,
and the feeling was uncomfortable.

"Why not?
She's been in there all fucking day." Emmett's voice was
booming, and it made my heavy head rattle.

I knew that I
couldn't waste away in my bedroom for the last week of summer until
school started, and eventually Em and Edward would get suspicious. I
made a decision then, beneath the new halo of light from my table
lamp. My father was dying. I loved my father, even though he thought
I loathed him. My father loved me. My mother loved my father, and
wanted me to love him too. My brothers were assholes. And I loved my
brothers. So I would pretend like nothing was wrong. I only had one
day left to fake happiness until they found out for themselves. Just
twenty-four hours, and that was all I had to fight through. And I'd
do it. I'd do it for my dad, for Esme, and for Edward and Emmett. I
needed to grow the fuck up.

This chapter
is a little lame. I realized after going back to revise when I was
writing one of the soon-to-last chapters. But give it a chance!

The author would like to thank you for your continued support. Your review has been posted.